


Graveyard, Wake

by mayachain



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Future Fic, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-01
Updated: 2006-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 10:46:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayachain/pseuds/mayachain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robert Drake, a man who was once St John Allerdyce, a slip of paper and a grave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Graveyard, Wake

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by and written as a sequel to [Corner of Mason and Crossy](http://community.livejournal.com/nixa_jane/64374.html) by **laytoncolt**, back before I learned proper etiquette to ask for permission first. Luckily for me, the author approved of it.

  


* * *

Drawing nearer to the site agreed upon for the meeting, he felt guilty; he really should come here more often. The graveyard was silent. Uphill, there had been a funeral a few hours earlier; there were no mourners left now. In a far corner, an old woman was tending to the grave of her late husband, the sound of footsteps no disturbance.

In front of the grave he was approaching, there stood a man, hand placed on the smooth surface of the polished flint headstone. Robert Drake felt the ice crawl up his arms at the mere sight of him. He hadn't had to concentrate this hard to keep from freezing anything for years. Every step toward the small patch took an enormous act of will, bringing him closer to the man who remained motionless, doing nothing to acknowledge him yet.

The hair peeking out from under a once look-enhancing hat was white; Robert berated himself for expecting otherwise. No more than four months of age difference, which meant the man now counted seventy-six years. The way he presented his back to him did not allow Robert to see his face, yet he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt who the man in front of him was. The last steps left him with nothing to do but take in torn trousers which might once have been part of a suit, a no longer stylish but plainly antique leather jacket, and a wooden cane lying on the grass.

A frozen foot placed deliberately on loose pebbles alerted the other to his presence. Robert could see eerily fragile-looking shoulders tense, yet the shorter man did not turn, nor did he make any move to reveal a lighter or matches in his hands. He simply stood there, right hand curled into a fist on the black headstone, waiting for Robert Drake to come up behind him.

He didn't know what to say. He had prepared for this meeting since… forever, it seemed, yet now he was at a loss for words. He wasn't even sure he dared to look into the mutant's face yet. Instead, he examined the man's fingers, marked by dots proclaiming an old age he'd never really believed the other would reach; marked by scars hinting at brothers and sisters on other body parts, stating it some kind of miracle or weird twist of fate that he had; marked by white knuckles and thick, greenish-blue veins. A spasm seemed to run along the arm, once. Robert waited, standing beside the grave in silence.

"You came."

The man's eyes did not leave whatever he was staring at beyond, seeing something else entirely than the well-kept graveyard hedge obstructing his line of vision, his voice sounding hoarse and far from strong. Robert decided against the reply his mind produced first. Claiming that his presence here in this place under these circumstances was "of course" would be a lie; he wouldn't have debated whether to come here or not over and over, not getting an ounce of sleep since the call if that'd been the case. He remained silent for a few more moments, thinking of what there could possibly be to say, then had to close and open his mouth once or twice before managing

"Why are you here?"

The moment the words escaped, his counterpart finally turned to face him. Feeling the other's gaze, Robert Drake fell oblivious to the wrinkled lines time had placed on formerly perfect features, to scars he knew the exact origin of, to marks that should never have been left there, would never have been if events, so many events over the years had turned out differently. There was pain in dark, indefinably greyish green or brown eyes, a pain so profound it would take a lifetime to comprehend, if ever. Robert felt himself involuntarily lost in those eyes, only finding the strength to avert his own from them when the withered hand left the headstone, turning out to be curled into a fist on account of desperately holding onto something. The different angle disclosed ragged edges of a piece of paper time - fifty-eight years, thought Robert Drake - had given a yellow tint. He knew instantly what note it was, knew the exact words which had once been written on it.

"Because I need to be saved,"

croaked out in a voice that spoke of thousands of scorched buildings, innumerable exploding cars, singed flesh and charred bodies; a voice the world had feared since its owner had been seventeen but never expected to break.

Robert Drake's mind held intimate knowledge of every last of the man's victims, every last one of his hideous acts, yet now, unthinkably, they felt irrelevant. 12849 wounded, 1386 dead; he did not hesitate to offer his embrace. Cool arms were put around those much-too fragile shoulders, icy nostrils took in the faint smell of old age mixed with the scent of tree leaves and wooden planks, car decks burning, he didn't hesitate because this was the man his father --

"He never gave up," he murmured, hands tightening against a shaking back. "All you did, all the times you fought, the fifteen years he spent with my mother - he never lost hope that one day you would come back."  


* * *

  
Iced-down trees in the garden whenever there has been bad news. An endless succession of cell phones, never a changed number, not once. Tales of friendship and betrayal and faith, told to a young boy in front of a small fire. The same story, told in form of a fairytale to even smaller kids. Expressions of love and a request as last words, promised to fulfil to no longer hearing ears. A graveyard, empty save for two men in tears. Tonight, St John Allerdyce is coming home.

* * *

* * *


End file.
